


Little Earthquakes

by Agent_Zap



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Community: blindfold_spn, Curtain Fic, Fat Character, First Time, Food Kink, Kink Meme, M/M, Pathological irrational erotical codependency, Unresolved Sexual Tension, Warning: Fat-bashing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-02-18
Updated: 2012-02-18
Packaged: 2017-10-31 09:45:04
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,149
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/342620
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Agent_Zap/pseuds/Agent_Zap
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Original prompt:</p><p>"Sam/Dean – Fat Dean<br/>Sam having sex with a 500 lb Dean."</p><p>Sam didn’t think of it as settling down. They were still hunters. But having a permanent base had its benefits. Instead of relying on Bobby all the time, they set up their own center of operations, and started going on hunts solo, knowing back-up was always one phone call away.</p><p>It wasn’t until Sam came home one day to a house permeated by the smell of fresh-baked apple pie, that it hit him that Dean might be viewing it differently.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Little Earthquakes

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [Cream](https://archiveofourown.org/external_works/6923) by electricandroid. 



> Spoilers: None.
> 
> Disclaimer: No money. No rights.
> 
> Beta: chef_geekier saves my ass again. 
> 
> Yes, the title is taken from the album and song by Tori Amos. However, for twenty years I believed that the expression ’little earthquakes’ was quite common in the English language, and furthermore that it meant something more like ’little mundane things that have a huge impact on our lives’ rather than what I gather is the common interpretation of Tori’s lyrics; ’stupid shit that makes us break up’. Then, out of curiosity and nostalgia, I looked it up, and lo: Pretty much only Tori gets credited for this metaphor. And yeah, perhaps I got it all wrong and stuff. But then I re-read the lyrics and realized that obviously they are all about Sam-n-Dean. Oh yeah. So Tori is not only brilliant, she’s also psychic.

Sam didn’t think of it as settling down. They were still hunters. But having a permanent base had its benefits. Instead of relying on Bobby all the time, they set up their own center of operations, and started going on hunts solo, knowing back-up was always one phone call away.

It wasn’t until Sam came home one day to a house permeated by the smell of fresh-baked apple pie, that it hit him that Dean might be viewing it differently.

He sat down in one of the chairs by the kitchen table and looked around. The place was… neat. Sure, it was old and comfortably ugly, but it was clean, and there were no piles of old take-out cartons or pizza boxes. When was the last time Dean had gone on a hunt instead of staying home? Suddenly, he saw himself in his mind’s eye, jumping up at the announcement of a hunt and gleefully storming out the door, grabbing his jacket and weapons on the way. Just as clearly, he saw Dean, sitting at this table and smiling indulgently at his disappearing little brother.

He leaned back in the chair. Shiiit. _He_ had become the hunter. But… What had Dean become?

He heard the floorboards squeak under Dean’s bare feet and looked up as he entered the kitchen, smiling and carrying an empty plate.

’Dude! You gotta taste this pie! I’m telling you, you’ll jizz your pants! I’m King of Pie!’

He held out his arms in invitation to applause, and continued to the kitchen counter where he lifted a dish towel off of three – no, two and a half, still cooling pies. With the tip of his tongue peaking out of the corner of his mouth, he carefully cut another pie in halves, balancing one half onto his own plate and the other on a clean one. The crust flaked slightly, and the filling was steaming and just right; not runny, but chunky and gooey. There was a hint of almonds in the air, too. He got a big bowl of already whipped cream from the refrigerator and scooped it on top of the pastry until it was covered by two mounds of soft, cold cream that were taller than they were wide.

He picked up the plates and headed back for the TV.

’Come on, hurry! Jaws is on! Get your own spoon, will ya?’

Sam stared at Dean’s sweat-pant clad ass and bare feet as he was swallowed by the shadows and flickering lights from the TV. He warily tried to place the unfamiliar feeling unfolding inside him. Something was very, very… Odd. Dean looked… Happy?

* * *

A couple of times, Sam asked Dean if he wanted a hunt. But Dean dismissed him with a laugh. And truth be told, Dean was building up resources and systems which were earning him his own reputation as a go-to guy in the hunting community. Watching him woo and charm authorities, witnesses and the most hard-boiled old hunters alike, made something bright and burning burst in Sam’s chest.

When Dean wasn’t buried in phones or books or computers, he cooked. He’d started with pie-baking, and never seemed to notice that Sam didn’t really eat much of them. It wasn’t that they weren’t good – Dean’s pies were excellent – Sam just wasn’t much of a pie-guy. But, watching Dean… Moaning, with his eyes closed, over apple, cherry, peach, pumpkin, pecan, lemon merengue, drowned in creams; fresh and whipped, sour or ice cream…

When he was home, Sam always accepted a plate as well, so he could keep Dean company without looking weird. It was amazing what he could put away, without ever getting sick, and Sam knew that he ate at least as much while Sam was away. He knew because when he got home, Dean proudly shared all the details.

It started showing, too. It was fascinating to witness how his brother’s body, which had always been totally lean and boyish, started curving and swelling and become an object of gravity – he moved about the house with measured, economic steps, from the kitchen to the living room and back again, reminding Sam of a pendulum; kept in motion, defined by the power of its rhythmically swinging weight.

He moved on from pies to other dishes – his tastes were the same as they’d always been, nothing fancy, and definitely not green, but Sam was sure he’d never had waffles, home fries and cheeseburgers or chicken-fried steak and mashed potatos as good as Dean’s. And Dean kept eating.

The crow’s feet by his eyes, that used to only show when he smiled, became more pronounced as the flesh they ran through got fuller. The freckles that used to highlight his cheek-bones now covered big, rounded cheeks.

His own T-shirts had quickly started stretching over soft pecs, love handles and a growing gut, until he’d simply started wearing Sam’s T-shirts instead. By now, even those hugged his body tight, the bands making his wobbly upper arms bulge out of the sleeves, and the fabric barely covering his pale belly. The jeans had been discarded – he only wore sweat-pants now, showing the gently rolling shapes of his massive ass-cheeks, unrestrained.

Sam felt strangely second-hand decadent, as he tried to watch Dean unnoticed. He would swallow down the saliva pooling in his mouth while Dean chewed, and wonder why he kept seeking out this sense of border-line violation that crept up on him when confronted with Dean’s insistent presence. He would sit at the table, pretending to research, and watch him on the couch, his pudgy hands constantly moving between plate and mouth. His big cheeks would bulge out even more, and sometimes he’d chew with his mouth open, noisily and making appreciative, smacking sounds with his shining, greasy lips. Clothes seemed like a symbolic vestige of decency, almost a mockery, as his body became unstoppable, a force of nature that respected no man-made boundaries. The couch was sagging beneath him, the thick cushions distorting, and cradling the seemingly vulnerable yet determined cascades of jiggling fat.

Once in a while, Dean would send a smug glance Sam’s way, as if daring him to comment. Then he would pick out a special morsel from his plate, and slowly put it in his mouth, using all the fingers on his hand to delicately place it on the centre of his pink, wet tongue. Sam would invariably stare, stunned by the spectacle, then spring to life when Dean bit down, dropping his cell phone or knocking over his chair as he jumped up. At these times, he would leave the room fast, to hide his glowing face.

At other times, he’d come home from a particularly vicious hunt, all keyed up and restless, mind churning with images of brutality.

And without a word, Dean would rise from the groaning couch and let him sit on one of the kitchen chairs and watch, while he got out eggs, butter, sugar and flour and started baking cookies. Sam could never remember where his mind had gone in the mean-time, but once every square inch of kitchen counter and table was covered with cookies on cooling racks, he’d find himself slumped in the chair, half asleep and comfortable, surrounded by the smell of melted chocolate.

* * *

One day, Bobby dropped by with a belated house-warming present: A bottle of genuine Singer moon-shine – his new hobby. He hesitated just a moment after Sam let him in and Dean met him inside the hallway. He sent Sam a sharp look over Dean’s shoulder as the younger man greeted him with a bear-hug, but quickly returned Dean’s smile as they drew apart and Dean excitedly invited him in. It was a good day, Sam thought. Mostly, Dean and Bobby talked, exchanging recent tales and tips of the trade, sitting on the porch with cold beers, a huge pitcher of sweet ice tea, peanut brittle and fresh blueberry muffins within reach.

Bobby’s bottle stayed on the kitchen table. Sam sat a little back, sipping a beer and smiling at his family, just adding an occasional nod or affirmative rumble to accentuate Dean’s stories.

When Bobby got up to leave, Dean said his good-byes on the porch and started carrying the empty glasses inside.

Sam walked Bobby to the car in silence, hands in his pockets, enjoying the balmy evening air and the long, soft golden rays of sun-light that still touched them from just over the hill-tops. Bobby turned to face him, glancing up to the house.

’What in the name of God is going on here?!’

’What?’

Sam stared at Bobby, disoriented.

’What happened to your brother? Why haven’t you called me? I thought you two were doing fine here!’

’We are, Bobby! Nothing’s _happened_. You saw him!’

Sam motioned with his arm towards the house,

’I don’t think we’ve ever had it this good!’

Bobby’s eyes narrowed,

’Sam, your brother is _destroying_ himself! He looks like a beached whale, for cryin’ out loud!’

Sam looked down at the ground.

’Bobby, I think you better leave now.’

Bobby exhaled sharply, reached out and grabbed Sam’s arm.

’Sam! Are you _doing_ this to him? What the heck is going on?’

Sam stepped back and shook free of Bobby’s hand.

’Please, Bobby. Just… Leave it alone.’

He raised his head and met Bobby’s eyes with a naked, pleading look.

’He’s happy.’

Then he turned around and walked towards the house. He paused inside and waited, his back leaned against the front door until he heard the car start and then the engine sound die away in the distance. He stayed there for a few more minutes, his heart hammering over the sound from the TV. Then he walked over the grey, threadbare carpet and into the living room.

* * *

Dean was spread out over the couch majestically. He was looking defiantly up at Sam, as he crammed a slice of cold pizza inside his mouth, covered in cheese and anchovies, and dripping olive oil down his chins and his hand. Sam walked over and squeezed himself down on the couch next to him, closing his eyes and feeling the soft, layered slopes of fat give and press against his own body, wobbling in time with his chewing and swallowing. Then he leaned over to the table, turned off the TV and picked up another slice of pizza, turning towards Dean and holding it up to his face.

Dean moaned out loud, his head falling back against the couch and his eyes fluttering closed, his mouth opening wide. Sam could see his throat working in expectation. Slowly, slowly he guided the tip of the bubbly, perfectly browned wheat bread, smothered in garlic and fresh oregano, towards Dean’s lips. It wasn’t that he wanted to tease Dean deliberately, just… The moment was too precious not to be savoured. Dean was blindly snapping for the treat right under his nose. Hand shaking, Sam cupped his cheek to guide him. Dean leaned into it with a sigh, and Sam tracked his thumb through the filling on the pizza, then put the finger on Dean’s lip. His tongue darted out to swipe against it, sneaking around it and drawing it inside to suck it clean. Sam felt his dick pulse in his jeans. Then he slid his thumb out, tore a big piece of pizza off and fed it to Dean, who chomped down, tossing his head like a bird struggling to down a big fish.

Sam felt some final dam wash away rather uneventfully inside him, and dropped to his knees on the floor between Dean’s widely spread thighs. He reached up and felt a bit like a cliché when he tore open the T-shirt, but he couldn’t really be bothered, and whimpered as his hands overflowed with the velvety softness of Dean’s chests, and his face got buried in the moist and sweaty rolls of his belly. He pushed around until he found Dean’s nipples, and caught each in his mouth, one at a time, gaping wide to take in as much as possible, and kneading each huge breast with both hands at the same time. It was like drowning, giving himself completely over and taking everything he wanted – realizing that Dean could handle it, that no matter how Sam might gorge himself on him, he would always have more to give.

Dean was still making violent attacks on the pizza, short of breath just from being busy swallowing. A loud burp rang through the room. Sam released the nipple he was abusing, and groaned against Dean’s chest. He moved down, sitting back on his heels, and looked up at all that succulent flesh, just waiting for him. Dean had a serene look on his face – streaked with tomato sauce, and still chewing, but his eyes were closed and his brow smooth, eye brows tilted slightly outward and up, dreamily.

Sam wrestled out of his own T-shirt and threw it on the floor. His arms looked unnaturally hairy, and wiry, and dried out, compared with the smooth and swelling masses of Dean’s belly, resting on his massive thighs. Carefully, in slow steps, he worked his hands in under the largest ring of stretch-marked fat, feeling his way along the sweaty groove until he reached the waist-band of the pants. Catching the elasic band with his finger-tips, he put one knee up on the couch between Dean’s legs and motioned him to lie down. Dean grabbed the pillows he’d been resting against, and tucked them behind his head before shifting around to lie back and bring his legs up. Sam felt himself bob and dive on the ebb and flow of Dean’s moving body, floating and following him up, to kneel again on the couch between his bend legs. Dean sighed deeply as he reached out for the last piece of pizza.

Sam curled his fingers around the elastic and started working the stretched-out cotton down. Dean huffed and puffed as he leaned from side to side, helping the process along. The top of the pants appeared, and Sam rolled them down, all the way off. Then he wrapped his arms around Dean’s stomach, bottom to top, and squeezed, nuzzling into that extra juicy crevice of his belly-button. He felt intoxicated. He might just stay here forever. He could hear Dean’s stomach rumble and gurgle somewhere deep inside.

He looked up to see Dean’s eyes open, his hands empty. But he reached over the side of the couch behind his head, and brought into view a large tub of caramel-brownie ice cream. Sam shook his head and moaned as Dean smiled at him, grabbed the ready spoon and started shoveling the softened dessert down.

Sam grabbed Dean’s big, dimpled knees and pushed his legs up, Dean grunting. He arranged one knee over the back of the couch, and the other over his shoulder, shoving one of the thick couch cushions under Dean’s hips. The angle made his belly roll somewhat up, and although he couldn’t see, Sam could easily feel his way down to his crotch. His dick was hard, and his balls drawn up tight inside their thin-skinned sack. Both felt weirdly disproportionate and insignificant amidst his brother’s magnificence. His hand sneaked further down; frolicking between those tumbling hills, digging for the dark, drawing entrance he knew was there. Finally reaching that tiny, somandric point of convergence was much more exciting.

He looked up at Dean, question in his eyes. Dean just looked back from under heavy lids, humming, with ice cream running from the corners of his mouth, and goose bumps on his arms from the cold tub he was cradling.

Sam pulled back and opened his jeans, letting his heavy dick fall out. He shuffled closer to Dean on his knees, took hold right behind the head with two fingers, and looked down, mesmerized, as under his manual guidance it disappeared between the rolls of fat on Dean’s belly. The feeling was exquisite – hot and moist and everywhere. He took a deep breath and firmly grabbed the base instead, before he lost it right there. Then he started swiping from side to side through the generous groove crossing Dean’s body. He could feel his eyes roll back in his head, and hear himself groaning and panting, as if from a distance.

Dean was quiet, apart from the constant slurping, but Sam could feel his leg tremble against his shoulder. He pulled away from Dean’s belly, and let his dick slap down towards his ass. Poking his way in experimentally, each inch of ass crack felt as if _this_ was going to be the one that tipped him over the edge. But he rode the wave, and when the tip of his dick finally reached Dean’s hole, his balls were already up against him. He shifted on his knees, to get just that little bit closer, and ready to use his over-stretched quadriceps. He leaned over Dean, pressing himself against his mountainous stomach, hooked his hands around his slippery upper arms for leverage, and _thrust_. He felt the thin ring of muscle give easily, and let in just the head, then squeeze around it until it popped back out. He couldn’t reach any further in this position – but it was perfect. He had all of Dean’s enormous ass to work, and the tightest part pulsing just around the sensitive, swollen glans.

He thrust again, only just breaching that small mouth, and looked up at Dean. His head was thrown to the side and he was sucking on the spoon. Sam quickly reached up and replaced the spoon with his fingers. Dean’s mouth was cool and sticky. His brow creased, as he slobbered on Sam’s fingers enthusiastically. Sam set up a quick rhythm, just dipping in and out of Dean’s ass-hole with each hard push. He could feel the firmness of Dean’s erection against his stomach, too, hidden behind the avalanches of fat. He worried for a second that he wouldn’t be able to reach Dean’s prostate like this, but apparently that didn’t matter, as Dean suddenly went rigid, sucked Sam’s fingers in like he was going to deep-throat them, and his ass-hole started spasming hard around Sam. Jerking hard on top of his quavering body, Sam came right after, loudly in the quiet room, and shooting erratically in and outside of Dean.

Gasping and sweating went on for a while, coming down. Sam got up to fetch a wet washcloth, wiping himself and Dean clean of come, melted ice cream and tomato sauce. He sat down on the edge of the couch and faced his big brother.

’Why, Dean?’

Dean blinked and smiled.

’Because I like it.’

For a minute, Sam weighed the answer in his head. Did he need more than that? Not really. Then Dean seemed to gather his nerve, and added:

’And because it makes you happy.’


End file.
